


The Das Vadanya  Affair

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: Das Vadanya Tovarishch [1]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:02:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Napoleon is passed over for promotion yet again, Illya decides to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Das Vadanya  Affair

_December 10, 1971_

The flight back from Switzerland had been uneventful. The drive in from LaGuardia had been smooth and the traffic had been relatively light.

It was good to be home.

It wasn't the first time Illya Kuryakin had had that thought, but it always surprised him. He had managed to live the first thirty years of his life without finding a place he considered home. There had been places he'd lived, even places that he'd liked. But there had been no place that he had regretted leaving, none he'd felt an emotional attachment to.

But now, coming back to U.N.C.L.E. H.Q. and New York and, most of all, Napoleon, he felt a deep contentment. He was absolutely and truly home.

He strode through the halls of headquarters, saying hello to various other agents, nodding amiably as they passed. He fought valiantly to suppress the large grin that was threatening to form on his face. The only thing that kept it at bay was the thought that he didn't want to ruin the reputation he'd spent years building. Even a good many of his fellow agents thought he was a cold, calculating bastard, and he used that faÁade to give him an edge in the field. It would not make his job any easier if it were known that the Ice Prince was a deliriously happy and well-adjusted man. He'd never hear the end of it.

It was all Napoleon's fault.

Six years with Napoleon had turned him soft.

Well, perhaps soft wasn't quite the right word. He was neither weak nor maudlin, as any opponent who had crossed him in the field would testify. But he did seem to have developed, or perhaps just uncovered, a deeply romantic core that he'd never suspected he possessed. 

Not that it was a change that he regretted. His life now was so much more than he had thought it could be.

Still fighting the urge to smile widely and blow Lisa Rogers a kiss as she passed him by, Illya at last arrived at his destination: Napoleon's office. He was already planning what they would do in celebration of his homecoming as he knocked once and opened the door.

And stopped at the threshold, all thoughts of happiness and romanticism knocked from his head by the sight of Napoleon Solo sitting at his desk, radiating frustration and anger.

Not that his partner's state of mind would have been obvious to anyone else. One thing that could be said of Napoleon: he always maintained grace under pressure. Even under the most stressful conditions, he never openly showed his agitation. A stranger might be fooled into thinking that he was frivolous and shallow, with no deeper feelings, but it was as much a façade as Illya's unflappability. 

"Napoleon?" he said gently. He entered the office and quietly closed the door behind him.

Napoleon didn't even look up. He kept his eyes focused firmly on the surface of his desk, his hands clutching a sheaf of papers in front of him.

"Polya? What's wrong?" Illya sat in the visitor's chair in front of the desk and laid one hand on Napoleon's arm.

"They did it again." The voice was strained, tight and so unlike Napoleon's usual pleasant tenor that Illya almost found it hard to believe the words had come from the man in front of him.

"Who did what?" Illya knew what was coming, as surely as if he had already been told, but he wanted confirmation. He did not want to assume anything.

"Section One, that's who. They've turned down my promotion. Again." On the last word Napoleon jerked his hands away from Illya's and threw the papers on the floor.

The action was so sudden and so out of character that Illya very nearly flinched. As it was, he held himself very still as the last of the papers drifted lazily to the floor, uncertain of what to say or do.

"Napoleon... I'm sorry." The words were insufficient, but they were all he could manage. 

"Not as sorry as I am," Napoleon said, the words imbued with so much bitterness that Illya was again struck by how out of character they were.

"No, I suppose not."

Napoleon looked up, as if suddenly struck by what he had said. "I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't mean to take this out on you. It's just damned unfair."

"Yes, I know."

"Everyone keeps telling me that I'm Waverly's successor and how I'm the only person for the job and how I'll fill the old man's boots. But they won't let me even begin to do the job. And then they go and promote Williamson in L.A., for Christ's sake. I didn't even trust that man as field agent, and they've given him a Section One assignment. Nothing big, mind you, but he's Section One and I'm not." He stopped to take a breath. "Just what the hell is going on?"

Napoleon stared at him, uncertainty infecting his expression for perhaps the first time in his life.

Illya bit his lip, and met Napoleon's eyes, considering what he could say. That everything was all right. That things would change. That Section One was just working in their ever-mysterious ways. None of that would be a comfort to his partner. On top of which, Illya wasn't even sure that any of it was true.

This was the third time that Napoleon had been up for promotion to Section One, and it was the third time he had been turned down. And Illya Kuryakin was beginning to have his suspicions as to why. But he would not voice those suspicions, not even to himself. Not yet. He was going to start a new assignment. One that Alexander Waverly would not have knowledge of. He was going to use the skills that U.N.C.L.E. had given him against the organization.

He was going to find out exactly why Napoleon had been turned down for promotion.

But that was for later. Right now, he had an irate partner to deal with.

"I don't know what they're doing. I'm sorry, Napoleon. But for now, at least let me take you out for a nice meal. It is, after all, my homecoming." He tried to affect a light smile, and fancied that he at least partly succeeded when Napoleon returned it with a half-hearted one of his own. Napoleon's expression was more grimace than a mark of real good humor, but Illya would take what he could get at this moment.

"I've been selfish. Welcome back, Illya. And of course you can take me out. Your treat?" There was the beginning of the old Napoleon twinkle in his eye.

"Of course, my treat. And I'll even let you choose the restaurant." He would indulge Napoleon anything right now. "Although, I will warn you, that if you choose too extravagantly your roommate won't be able to afford rent this month."

"Nothing too pricey, then. But how about a nice intimate, quietly elegant place? So I can welcome you back properly."

"That will be fine. You can make the reservation. And now, I have to report to Waverly. Fill him in on the mission in Switzerland."

"Fine. Stop by the office about five? I should be ready to go by then."

"I'll be here." Illya gave his partner one last reassuring smile. He had to firmly quash the desire to kiss the man in front of him. They had developed firm rules about displays of affection while in headquarters or on assignment. With a final wave, he left the office.

At least Napoleon was looking slightly happier than when he had arrived. He had even managed an answering smile. Illya wasn't fooled, though. The smile hadn't extended past his mouth, and his eyes still harbored a hurt and anger that wouldn't be quelled.

* * *

He walked through the halls on his way to Waverly's office, his thoughts going in several directions at once. He found it difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago everything in the world had seemed right and he had been utterly at peace.

Now, he could only think of how things seemed to be rapidly going wrong.

He was waved through to Waverly's office by Lisa Rogers. This time he felt no urge to blow her a kiss.

Waverly was waiting for him.

"Welcome home, Mr. Kuryakin. I trust you were successful in Switzerland?" 

"Yes sir. We managed to eliminate the Thrush satrapy in Geneva."

They fell into the usual pattern of debriefing. Illya supplied the details of the raid that had taken out the satrapy. Waverly asked questions when points needed clarifying. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet Illya found his tension increasing as the interview progressed. He couldn't help but remember that Alexander Waverly was part of the group that had refused Napoleon's promotion. He also was aware that Waverly must know that he knew about Napoleon's situation, that he would have sought out his partner even before reporting to his superior.

It was an uncomfortable time. Illya did not like uncomfortable times. He didn't tolerate them. He preferred things out in the open, which was why so many people found him blunt, if not outright rude.

This case was no different. When the debriefing was winding down, and he was about to dismissed by Waverly, he voiced his concern.

"I was just talking to Mr. Solo." Illya tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He knew he hadn't fooled Waverly, however. He could see the Old Man's attention ratchet up several notches at the mention of Napoleon's name.

"Oh yes. And how is Mr. Solo?" But however much this topic interested him, Waverly had been in this business for too long to give anything away.

"Not terribly well. He'd received word about his promotion being turned down." No need to beat about the bush. They both knew why he'd brought this up.

"Yes, quite." Waverly bent to fill his pipe. A delaying tactic made natural though years of practice. Only when the pipe was filled and tamped down to its owner's satisfaction did Waverly continue.

"I don't think you need to worry about that, Mr. Kuryakin. It's only a temporary delay. Mr. Solo will be a member of Section One before you know it." That was clearly the last word he was going to hear on the topic.

"Yes sir."

"Off with you."

Illya needed no further encouragement. He left the office, and walked through halls that seemed increasingly claustrophobic. He sought out his area in the lab. Fortunately, the place was deserted at the moment. It gave him the quiet he needed to think.

He had a lot to think about.

Napoleon was being denied entry to Section One. Mr. Waverly was hiding his disquiet about the situation behind an air of unconcern. Waverly's act would have fooled almost anyone, even other agents. It had not, however fooled Illya. 

At least Waverly did not seem to be the problem. It sounded like he was fighting Napoleon's cause. Which meant, of course, that he was fighting against certain people in Section One. 

And Illya couldn't do a thing until he knew what was really going on.

He knew what he would have to do. He would have to use his skills, the craft U.N.C.L.E. had taught him, against his own employers. And he would have to do so alone. Waverly could not condone his actions and Napoleon could not know about it.

He might be doing it for the best of reasons and for the highest of ideals, but that didn't change a thing.

Illya Kuryakin was about to go rogue.

* * *

_January 5, 1972_

The next few weeks found Illya playing a dangerous game. On the outside, he was still the loyal U.N.C.L.E. agent. He performed his duty as admirably as always, foiling the villains and saving the innocents, just as he had always done.

On the inside, however, he was a traitor.

He used every trick he knew, every keenly honed skill to pry into the secret world that was U.N.C.L.E.'s Section One.

It wasn't easy. The Command's ruling body protected itself even more carefully than it protected the world from threat. Illya listened closely to the rumors that floated through headquarters, sifting fact from fancy. He surreptitiously searched Records for telling files. He even briefly bugged Waverly's office, abandoning that course as too risky after only a day.

It was the computer records that finally gave him the information he had been seeking.

He had been systematically searching U.N.C.L.E.'s computer system since the beginning, looking for protected directories and encrypted files. After only a week he found the place most likely to contain Section One's operating files.

It took three more weeks to break the security on the files and cover his own tracks in.

Which had led him to the document currently glowing on the screen in front of him.

He carefully read through the file again. He checked its authenticity, once, twice, three times. He read it several more times, making absolutely sure that he understood what it said.

Satisfied that what he'd found was genuine, he logged out of the system, making sure his foray into U.N.C.L.E.'s computer records wouldn't be discovered. He turned off the terminal with a final click. He felt he should do something, but he couldn't find the energy. He could only slump in his seat, letting the chaos of his thoughts have free rein.

It wasn't that he was really surprised by what he had found, or that it was something he had never considered. Perhaps it was just that he had become complacent, come to count on his own happiness too much. Or perhaps he had just let his partner's eternal, damnable optimism rub off on him.

But the world was not a place for optimists: long experience had taught him that much. Nor was the espionage business a place for the sentimental. He had begun to forget that. He would not do so again.

He had found the file that told him why Napoleon was being continually refused promotion to Section One, why the man most qualified to lead the organization in the future was being frozen out of making even the most banal decision.

That reason was one Illya Kuryakin.

Not that it was quite that simple.

The thing he had found was a confidential memo, accessible only to the Continental chiefs, and one very determined Section Two agent. It detailed the latest application of Napoleon Solo for promotion to Section One. It reviewed Solo's strengths, his diplomatic skills and included Alexander Waverly's recommendation of the man he clearly viewed as his successor. And in spite of this impressive resume of ability and vocation, the memo concluded that Solo should not be allowed into the ranks of Section One. All because he had a homosexual lover that he openly, if discreetly, acknowledged.

Illya had to hand it to his superiors: they displayed no prejudice of their own. They all admitted that Solo was one of their top agents, that he was imminently qualified for promotion. But they also pointed out that a Continental chief, especially the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, would have to deal regularly with leaders of countries, great and small, and that such men would not always be as liberal as the members of the Command.

They made it sound like a quite reasonable decision. And it was, from their point of view. Though he wished it weren't so, Illya knew they were right. Even in the more liberal atmosphere that the sixties had wrought, even after the Stonewall riots that Illya had, secretly, cheered on, homosexuality was the one taboo that couldn't be allowed in the halls of power.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. It was the kind of injustice that Illya had convinced himself he had fought against all these years. And it was being enforced by his employers, by the organization that he had given his loyalty to for over fifteen years.

In the tempest that had taken over his well-ordered mind, two things were becoming clear. First, Napoleon should be the one to take over the Command; there was no one else so well qualified, nor did Waverly have enough time left him to begin grooming another successor. Second, Napoleon could not take over U.N.C.L.E. if he were the lover of Illya Kuryakin. Those two facts led to a final conclusion: Illya Kuryakin must leave U.N.C.L.E. and Napoleon Solo.

It was the only way. He had to break up with Napoleon, for his own good. He knew how stubborn his partner was. If Illya were to stay in U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon would pursue him. And even if Napoleon did not, if Illya Kuryakin were present, there would always be doubt in the minds of Section One about their relationship. They would still refuse to promote him.

But if Illya were to leave, they would soon forget about the relationship, even as long as it had gone on. Napoleon would no doubt revert to form and begin chasing every attractive woman who crossed his path. His relationship with Illya would be regarded as an aberration, something that could be ignored. And Napoleon would be allowed to take his rightful place as the head of U.N.C.L.E.

It was best for everyone. Napoleon would have the job he had been born for. The Command would have the leader it deserved. The world would be a safer place because of it.

It was surprising how easy it was to make this decision. It made sense, and was logical. It was the right thing.

All he had to do was ignore the voice screaming inside him to stop.

* * *

_January 14, 1972_

Once the decision was made, Illya had to harden his heart and begin living a double life. He still shared an apartment with Napoleon. He did his job, working mostly in Research, occasionally going out in the field. Outwardly, nothing seemed to have changed.

Inwardly, everything had. Faced with the prospect of never seeing Napoleon again, he was trying to memorize everything he could about his lover, from the way he tied his tie in the morning to the way he kissed in the aftermath of love-making. At the same time, he tried to hide any additional attention he was paying to his partner. If Napoleon noticed any change in his attitude, he might guess that there was something going on that he didn't know about.

And he began to plan for his new life.

He first had to find a place to hide, a place where not even a determined U.N.C.L.E. agent would be able to find him. Illya had many contacts all over the world, but he was reluctant to use most of them. He couldn't use anyone directly associated with U.N.C.L.E. for fear that Napoleon would be able to get the information from them, by fair means or foul. He had no illusions that Napoleon would be a gentleman once he realized what his partner had done.

Needing someone ruthless, Illya had turned to Andris Cirulis. The gruff Latvian smuggler was now living in Finland, still making his living from not quite legal means. If anyone could find a bolthole obscure enough to avoid Napoleon's notice, it would be Andris. The only risk was that Napoleon would guess that Illya had gone to the Latvian. After all, Andris had gotten them both out of the Soviet Union twice before. Still, if anyone could resist the Solo charm, the smuggler would be the one.

He started moving his savings into European accounts, thankful that he and Napoleon had never quite gotten around to merging their finances, though they had always meant to. He used mostly Swiss banks, depending on their legendary discretion, but also set up accounts in England, Denmark and, as decoys, Singapore and Hong Kong.

His immediate future dealt with, he began to look further ahead to what he could do as a career. As frugal as he was, his savings would only last so long.

He supposed he could have looked to another intelligence agency. He was officially a British citizen and he had no doubt that MI6 would have taken him on in an instant. Somehow, however, the idea had no appeal. He no longer wanted to work in the field, not without Napoleon to back him up, and working as a spymaster was never something he had aspired to. He had no stomach for manipulating other people's lives from some back office in London. Finally, he didn't want to risk meeting Napoleon. If he remained in the business that was sure to happen sooner or later.

Teaching, however, was something that he could do. Though he didn't have the publications necessary for teaching in one of the more prestigious schools, he had more than enough qualifications to teach at a small university or college. The only question was where.

England was again a possibility. He had enjoyed his time at Cambridge. And he still had friends in the English academic community.

But somehow he seemed to have become attached to the United States, the country where he had lived for more than ten years. The place had become home.

It was a masochistic urge, he knew. He was going to remove himself from Napoleon's life, but couldn't remove himself from the same country. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He guessed that Napoleon's pride would not allow him to seek out Illya after it was clear that Illya did not want to be found.

But before he could make any plans for his post-U.N.C.L.E. career, he first had to plan the end of his time with U.N.C.L.E. He had been avoiding it, but he knew he had to tell Alexander Waverly what he intended to do and why. While he intended on simply disappearing from his lover's life, he could not do the same with his employer. The Command would assume one of two things about an agent who dropped out of sight: that he had been kidnapped, or that he had defected. Illya did not want to be rescued from his choice, nor did he want it assumed that he had changed sides. He would have to do everything according to the rules.

Which brought him to where he was, standing in front of Waverly, about to explain his plans.

He found he was oddly nervous about the whole encounter.

It wasn't that Waverly didn't know about his relationship with Napoleon. Quite the opposite, in fact. Waverly had seemed to approve from the moment they had told him. And he'd positively encouraged them to share an apartment, something they'd been reluctant to do at first.

It might have been that he thought Waverly would be disappointed in him. After all, Napoleon might be the Old Man's protÈgÈ, but Illya knew that plans had been made for him as well. Waverly had gone to a lot of trouble to make certain that he would be able to continue working for U.N.C.L.E.

Or it might just have been that telling Waverly was the one thing that would make his plans real, and not just some theoretical course of action to be calculated but not acted upon. 

"You asked to see me, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's question brought him back to the present.

"Yes sir. I wished to discuss my plans for the future with you."

"Oh yes," Waverly said mildly, not even looking up from cleaning his pipe. Illya was sure that his superior had little idea what the next few minutes were going to bring. Well, there was no time like the present.

"I intend to resign from the Command. Effective in two months."

"What?" That made him look up, and directly at his agent. Illya nearly recoiled. Would have, had he not been expecting such a severe reaction.

"I said, I intend to resign from U.N.C.L.E."

"Yes, I heard you the first time." Waverly dropped his pipe on the desk with a crash. "But why the devil would you want to do that in the first place?"

Illya drew in a breath. He was not looking forward to this part. He considered himself a private man, and Waverly was also a private person. But he knew his superior would not allow this unless his reasons were known.

"I would like to speak freely, and off the record, sir. I don't want this conversation to be repeated to anyone."

Waverly sat silently for a moment, observing him closely.

"I can only promise that after I know your rationale. I have to consider the security of our operations above all else. Even above your personal concerns, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Fair enough, sir." Illya paused for a moment, using the time to unclench the fist he had unconsciously been making with his right hand. He deliberately relaxed all the muscles in his arm before going on.

"I am concerned about Mr. Solo."

"Of course you are. But what does that have to do with you resigning?"

"I am concerned, specifically, with Mr. Solo's career." Illya could see that the lights were beginning to dawn behind Waverly's eyes. He pressed on. "Napoleon has been passed over three times for promotion to Section One. At the same time, less qualified agents have received the same promotion. I have come to suspect that the reason for this state of affairs is my... relationship with him."

"This is madness..." Waverly tried to interrupt, but Illya wouldn't let him.

"I have therefore decided to break off my relationship with Mr. Solo and resign from the Command."

"I categorically refuse to allow this."

"I intend to move away from New York and take a teaching position at a location that I would prefer not be disclosed. To anyone."

"Mr. Kuryakin, are you quite finished?"

"Yes sir, I believe I am."

"Good. Because I believe that what you are proposing is exactly the wrong course of action. I don't think you have all the facts."

Of course, Illya couldn't let Waverly know that he did have all the facts. Even though Waverly most likely knew what Illya had done. It was a jousting match.

"Can you deny that Section One has refused to promote Napoleon because of his relationship with me?"

Waverly didn't answer, but merely tried staring him down. It was difficult, but Illya didn't relent.

"Can you, sir?"

"No." The single word was said curtly, grudgingly. Waverly picked up his pipe again and began to toy with it. Illya thought that it might be in real danger of being snapped in half. Waverly paced the room with a furious energy, his mouth working, but saying nothing for several long minutes.

Illya waited, with as much patience as he could manage, for his boss to break the silence.

"Damn it, Kuryakin, you're going about this the wrong way. I can convince them to promote Mr. Solo. All I need is time."

"Forgive me sir, but time is something you are running out of. You may not be able to convince Section One in time for Napoleon to replace you." That earned him another glare, which he ignored.

"I need you both, Mr. Kuryakin. The Command needs you both."

"I think you can only have one of us, sir. I believe that if the situation continues, Napoleon will resign. Soon."

"U.N.C.L.E. is his life, as it is yours."

"Which is why I am willing to do this. It's for the good of the Command, sir. Surely you can see that?"

"Blast!" Waverly sat down hard. For a brief moment, Illya saw not the formidable head of U.N.C.L.E., but an old man suddenly facing a problem that he couldn't solve. Kuryakin was shocked at seeing evidence of vulnerability in his superior, a man who usually showed only strength.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. This was not what I intended." More shocking still. Waverly never apologized to anyone. 

"I know, sir. But you must see I'm right."

"Yes." The vulnerability disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "Of course you're right. It's the only way. We'll have to start making arrangements immediately. Set up your final debriefing, clear you for employment elsewhere. I believe I can even put you in touch with certain organizations that would be eager to hire you."

"I intend to teach." Illya wanted it clear he would no longer be in the espionage business.

"I have several friends who are the heads of universities."

They fell to the negotiations. No further barriers were dropped, no more personal details were mentioned. It was only a professional interaction.

For a few hours he could forget about the consequences of what he was doing, and concentrate only on the details.

The consequences would follow soon enough.

* * *

_March 19, 1972_

The time had nearly arrived.

As he walked through the corridors of U.N.C.L.E., Illya went over everything he had done, and everything he yet needed to do.

Plans had been made and finalized. Contingencies had been arranged. He had a hiding place and contacts and even a job waiting for him next September. Everything was set. Tomorrow he would be on a plane bound for Europe, and then he would disappear.

The last few months had been difficult . He'd lived a double life, doing his job, living with Napoleon, and all the while planning on abandoning everything.

It was the best acting job he'd ever done.

Not that his performance had been impeccable. He had occasionally let the mask slip. There had been several times when Napoleon had asked him what was wrong, why he was distracted. He'd laughed those questions off, hoping his partner didn't notice how hollow the sound was.

But he was in the home stretch. Twenty-four hours from now he would no longer need to keep up the pretense, 

They were going to be the hardest twenty-four hours Illya Kuryakin had ever lived through.

"Illya!"

He nearly jumped, but managed to stifle the reaction. He chastised himself for letting him get distracted enough that he hadn't noticed the other agents in the hall.

"April, Mark. How are you? I didn't think you were working out of New York anymore."

"We're only in for a few days. The London office has been keeping us busy." April Dancer smiled. "It's good to be back. I've missed good old New York hot dogs."

Her partner snorted.

"Can you believe it? All the arts and culture this city has to offer, and she misses the hot dogs. Ow."

The last word was said as April punched him playfully on the shoulder.

"She's vicious, Illya. Can't you do something?"

"I never come between partners. It isn't healthy."

"Thanks, Illya." April positively beamed at him, before a slight shadow crossed her brow. "How's Napoleon?"

"He's fine."

"It's only that we'd heard he'd been turned down by Section One again." Mark looked at him with barely hidden concern.

Illya tried not to let any betraying emotions show on his own face as he answered.

"Just a temporary problem. Mr. Waverly has assured him that he'll be promoted soon."

"I'm glad to hear it." April took his arm in a friendly embrace. "All of us old-timers are looking forward to Napoleon being in charge. Not that we don't like Waverly, but Napoleon is... Napoleon."

"I'm looking forward to it as well," Illya replied. And only he and Waverly knew what it was going to cost him to see that day.

He must have let something show in his face or in his voice, because April gave him an odd look just then, and stopped, forcing him to halt as well.

"Illya, are you all right?"

"Yes," he said. He smiled in what he hoped was a convincing way. "I'm fine, April."

April looked closely at him for a few more seconds. Illya deliberately relaxed, trying not to let any tension show in his body. He must have succeeded.

"I'm sorry. It must be this job. Your start seeing suspicious behavior everywhere, even in your friends." She took his arm again with one hand, and her partner's arm with the other. "I think we should celebrate our return to this fair metropolis tonight. Can you and Napoleon join Mark and I for dinner and a night on the town?"

April had the worst timing.

"I'm afraid we can't tonight. We've made plans that can't be broken. Perhaps later in the week?" Illya neglected to mention that he would be on a plane tomorrow afternoon, and he wouldn't be coming back.

"Okay, but I'm going to hold you to that. We haven't seen the two of you in ages."

"And we're dying for you to fill us in on all the gossip," Mark added, a gleam in his eyes.

"I'll let Napoleon handle the gossip. But I'll enjoy the company." He gently extricated himself from April's grasp. "And now I'm afraid I have to leave you. I've got to clear up a few things in my office before the end of the day."

"Of course, Illya." April gave him a peck on the cheek and Mark grasped his shoulder in a friendly embrace.

Illya walked away from them down the corridor, resisting very much the urge to run as fast as he could away from this place and anyone who knew him. When he reached his office, he closed the door firmly behind him and sat down at his desk, very glad that his seniority had finally earned him a private office.

He knew that this double game was taking a toll on him, but he was surprised when his hands began to shake. He stared in mute fascination as the tremors wracked their way through the rest of his body. He tried to control the trembling, but the more he tried, the worse it got . He finally admitted defeat and let the shakes run their course. When the attack finally trailed off, he was left exhausted and wrung out, hands splayed on the desk in front of him.

It shouldn't be like this.

He had worked in espionage for virtually all of his adult life. He was used to hiding what he was feeling, to lying to attain his goals. This time should be no different.

But before he'd lied to enemies, people he had no regard for, whose objective he'd despised and feared. Now it was his colleagues he was deceiving, his friends. His lover. He had never before lied to the people he cared about. It was making him sick to do so now.

And it if was this difficult with April and Mark, how much harder would it be tonight, with Napoleon? How could he sit across from Napoleon in a restaurant, drink wine with him, make love to him, and not reveal what he was about to do the next day?

But he knew he could, would and had to do it.

There was no other way.

* * *

"I don't know why you wanted to come here tonight." Napoleon Solo shrugged off his top coat as they entered the small restaurant. "I'm not even sure I want Italian food tonight."

"Don't you remember?" Illya asked. He leaned in closer to his partner's ear and whispered. "We came here on our first date."

"Oh." A smile dawn on Napoleon's face as he no doubt replayed the events of that date, and the night that had followed. "Why Illya, you're being romantic." 

"Perhaps I'm just catering to my partner's romantic sensibility." Illya tried to be his usual haughty self.

"Yeah, right." Napoleon's words were sarcastic, but his expression showed a renewed interest in the evening. 

Illya followed him to their table, the one in a nicely secluded corner that he'd specifically asked for, a fond smile on his face.

The meal was perfect, the southern Italian fare that Napoleon loved and Illya had come to enjoy just as much. The wine was a French Beaujolais, perhaps a bit light for the robust flavors of their food, but satisfying.

The company was likewise perfect. Napoleon was charming and funny. For this night at least, he seemed to have shed the cloud that had followed him since Illya had returned to Switzerland. Napoleon's good spirits had the added effect of improving Illya's. Whole minutes went by when Illya could forget why he was here and what he was about to do. He tried to hold onto those moments, living in the present and savoring the simple pleasures of a meal shared with Napoleon.

After the meal, they walked for a time in the Village, talking of inconsequential things and enjoying the atmosphere of the neighborhood. Napoleon even threw his arm around Illya, allowing a casual public intimacy that they usually denied themselves. Normally Illya would have chastised his partner for such a breach of protocol. This night, however, he remained quiet and simply savored the sensation, even leaning slightly into Napoleon.

When the chill of the night air became too much, they caught a cab and returned to their apartment. 

Once inside, Illya helped Napoleon off with his top coat, hanging it in their closet before removing his own. It wasn't something he usually did ó Napoleon gave him an odd look ó but he wanted to cater to his partner's needs in all things this evening.

Napoleon headed into the living room, pouring himself a scotch.

"Do you want a drink, Illya?"

"Vodka. I'll get it myself." He headed for the kitchen, retrieving a cherished bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer.

They sat on the couch, savoring their drinks and enjoying each other's presence. They didn't talk, and for that Illya was glad. If he were to talk, he might give himself away. For this one last evening, Illya wanted only to please Napoleon and experience pleasure himself.

He began to feel deliciously warm, his face flushing from the effect of the alcohol, his cock heating from the effect of his partner.

Smiling, he put down his own glass, then took Napoleon's and placed it beside his own.

Leaning over, he kissed his partner. His first touch was nearly chaste, the mere meeting of lips. His next invaded Napoleon's mouth with a delicately probing tongue. He could taste scotch and gelato and Napoleon himself. It was a heady combination.

He leaned in further, taking the kiss deeper. He allowed one hand to lightly trail along Napoleon's jaw, the roughness of stubble complementing the softness of lips.

Finally, he pulled away, smiling.

"Don't you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?" Napoleon said.

Illya smiled even wider. "It's not the canary that I intend to swallow."

That got a choked snort from Napoleon.

"Are you propositioning me, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I'm proposing that we take this somewhere more comfortable. Like the bedroom."

"I'm in favor of that proposal."

"Good." He paused. "There's something I'd like to do for you. Give me a few minutes?"

"What have you got planned?" Napoleon said languorously, stretching out on the couch like a satisfied cat.

"You'll see." Illya leaned in for one final kiss. He broke it off reluctantly and rose. "Five minutes."

Illya made his way to their bedroom and quickly prepared it the way he had planned. He had considered long and hard what to do this evening. On the one hand, he didn't want to alert Napoleon to his plans. On the other, he wanted this to be a very special evening. He had elected to go with special and damn the risk.

When Napoleon entered the room, almost five minutes to the second later, the chamber was bathed in candlelight. There were candles on every surface, suffusing the room in a soft, flickering glow.

"Why Mr. Kuryakin, I think you really are a romantic." Napoleon came to meet him at the room's center. Illya didn't answer him in words, but instead took him in his arms and bestowed a passionate kiss on him, letting his senses drink their fill. He feasted on the taste of Napoleon, on his smell, on the feel of him in his arms. Each separate sensation he memorized and put away for safekeeping.

Softly, he ended the kiss, moving his head slightly back to look at his partner. Napoleon stared at him from behind hooded eyes, his mouth swollen with desire.

"No more talk, Napoleon. Just enjoy." Then he bent in for another kiss and took away any breath Napoleon might have had for speech.

He undressed his partner slowly, seductively, one piece of clothing at a time, till his partner stood in naked glory in front of him. One more kiss, then he laid Napoleon down on the bed.

Then it was time for his own unveiling. He again took his time, gaining as much delight in the shedding of his clothes as his partner did.

When the last piece of clothing had hit the floor he joined Napoleon in the bed, taking the darker man in a firm embrace. He luxuriated in the feel of skin against skin, of the play of muscle under flesh. Their tongues joined in glorious battle, Illya drinking even deeper of Napoleon's essence.

He moved his mouth away from Napoleon's mouth, letting his tongue take in the whole of his partner's body. He reveled in the clean taste of his neck, the sensitivity of his inner thigh, the salty musk of his cock. And when Napoleon could take no more, he brought him to a shattering climax and added one more taste to his catalogue of this night.

Returning to his partner's arms, he let Napoleon taste of himself from Illya's lips.

He stroked Napoleon's face, watching as he fell into a light sleep, only to awaken a short time later, ready for more.

He loved Napoleon as fiercely as he could in the time remaining, all too conscious that this was the last night they had.

After this night, he would have only memory and imagination.

And regret.

* * *

March 27, 1972  
Frankfurt, Germany

Dear Napoleon,

By now you'll have found out that I've gone. Mr. Waverly will no doubt explain my reasons for doing so. I won't be returning to U.N.C.L.E. or New York.

Please respect my wishes and don't try to find me. It's for the best.

Illya

* * *

April 5, 1972  
New York City

Mr. Kuryakin,

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you should know that everything is fine in New York. Things have gone much as you foresaw.

Mr. Solo was a bit upset, but I believe he's begun to see reason. He's settling back into his job quite nicely. If things continue as they are, I believe he will have that change in circumstances we talked about soon, likely by the end of the summer. 

I have contacted your new employer. They will be sending your contract and teaching schedule to me later this month. I'll forward it to you via the usual means.

Yours sincerely,

Alexander Waverly

* * *

April 24, 1972  
London, England

Dear Illya,

I hate you. Napoleon may not, but I definitely do. I hate what you've done and how you did it and everything. I especially hate that you didn't tell any of us. You didn't give us a chance to talk you out of it, to convince you to see reason.

I know. You'll say that you were the one who saw reason. You always think you're so damned logical. But this time you have no idea what you're talking about. You've destroyed two people: yourself and Napoleon, and you probably don't even realize it. I know you'll start saying you were doing it for the sake of the world and it's best for everyone, but I say the rest of the world can go hang. You can make the world the best place you can, and you start with the people around you.

And you nearly blew it. Do you know that? You underestimated Napoleon's feeling for you. When he found out what happened, he threatened to quit. Did quit. Waverly refused to accept the resignation, and hounded him till he agreed to stay. I'll give you this, though; you were Waverly's trump card. Napoleon agreed to stay because Waverly told him that you wouldn't see him no matter what. If Napoleon left the Command he wouldn't have his job and he wouldn't have you. I hope you know what you cost Napoleon. I hope you know what you cost yourself.

The worst part is I know that you still love him. I could see that when I saw you just before you left. This is as hard on you as it is on Napoleon and you still don't see how wrong it is. Then again, maybe I'm wrong and they've been right all these years. Maybe you really are the Ice Prince.

I know I can't change your mind--no one can, not even Napoleon--and I know it doesn't sound like it right now, but I hope you know that I still consider myself your friend. If you ever feel that you can, or that you need someone to talk to who really knows you, please contact me. You know how.

April Dancer

* * *

May 10, 1972  
Cambridge, England

Kuryakin, you stupid prat. 

Napoleon's upset (not that he'll ever show it) and that's upset April (and she's never afraid to show it) and that's upset me.

I can't believe you did this. Actually, I can believe you did this. I think half the reason I'm upset with you is that I was raised believing in the same ideals you seem to have acquired, or the British version of them. Loyalty, a stiff upper lip, sacrificing it all for the good of the team. I bought it all too. But sometimes it's just a load of bollocks. 

I know I'm probably not going to say anything that would convince you to come back, but I wish I could. Napoleon may make a great head of U.N.C.L.E. someday, but what the two of you had was special, once in a lifetime special.

Not to mention the fact that everyone misses you. The younger agents looked up to you, the older ones counted you a friend and even the sticks in the Research department seem to have developed a fondness for you.

I hope that you finally realize what a monumentally stupid thing you've done and come back, but I doubt that'll happen. You're too stubborn. Failing that, I hope that you find some happiness in your new life. And finally, I hope I see you some time in the future.

Yours frustratingly,

Mark Slate

* * *

_June 30, 1972_

It was time for his weekly visitor.

He sat out on the front step of the cabin that had been his home for the past three months and tried only to concentrate on the landscape around him. It was undeniably beautiful.

The cabin was in the center of a gentle valley, surrounded on all sides by the plants and flowers of the Finnish summer. A small lake lay a few hundred yards from the cabin. He had taken to swimming there every morning, the coldness of the water reminding him of similar lakes from his boyhood.

It was a pleasant spot, a place to rest and reflect and heal.

It wasn't helping at all.

He knew this was for the best, that he had acted as he should. He still believed that, would argue with anyone who told him differently. But being right did not take away the ache in his middle, didn't banish the gaping maw that seemed to have opened up at his center.

He shook himself, trying to redirect his thoughts to other, less dangerous areas.

Like his visitor.

Almost on cue, a figure appeared on the path leading up to the cabin.

Without thinking about it, his hand drifted to the gun in his shoulder holster. He supposed he would have to break himself of the habit of assuming that every person was a potential danger. He was a civilian now, or soon would be. He would have no reason to protect himself with deadly force once he was a harmless university professor. 

But for now, there were still those who would wish him harm. He did not remove his hand from the gun until he recognized the features of the man on the path.

Then, and only then, did he rise and walk down to meet his friend. 

"Illya Nickovetch, how the hell are you?" the man bellowed in Russian.

"Just fine, Andris. And you?"

"Grand. I just wish you had allowed me to find you a hiding place a little closer to civilization. This blasted place takes days to get to."

"That was the point, Andris."

"Hmmph," was all his friend would say, sounding for all the world like Alexander Waverly. 

"Come inside. Have a glass of vodka and that blasted Riga bitters. That will make it all seem worthwhile." Illya smiled and bestowed a gruff hug on the Latvian. He wanted to avoid any arguments and knew that Andris could always be distracted by alcohol. It was one of the things their nationalities had in common. Although Illya couldn't share an enthusiasm for Riga bitters. In his opinion it only spoiled good vodka.

The two of them entered the cabin. Andris removed his backpack and thrust it at Illya.

"Here, you can take this now. I've been carrying your blasted supplies for the last two hours."

"Thank you." Illya took the pack and moved into the kitchen, unloading the pack's contents onto the counter.

The cabin was small but comfortable, done in the blonde wood favored by the Finns. It was really only two rooms. The kitchen and living room were extensions of the same area; the bedroom was a small chamber off the back. The furniture was all wooden. In spite of the fact that the place had only rudimentary conveniences, Illya found it quite comfortable.

His supplies dealt with, Illya found glasses and the promised drinks. He and Andris sat at the kitchen table.

"Ah, now that makes up for the walk up from the road," Andris said, swallowing deeply.

"It would be better frozen, but I'm not complaining." 

"You always complain. But I expect that of you." Andris looked around the cabin, examining it carefully. "You seem to have settled in well."

"As you noted last time." Illya held his impatience in check. He knew Andris was concerned for him. The problem was he didn't want any one's concern at the moment. However, he held back the comments he felt forming. It would be bad form to insult the person who had helped him find a hiding place and was delivered his supplies, at great personal inconvenience.

"Yes, I suppose I did." Andris appeared willing to let the topic drop.

They settled into their now established routine. They exchanged pleasantries. Andris filled him in on the news of the world, a walking, garrulous newspaper. Illya, in return, told of how many fish he had caught and how spectacular the sunsets had been.

And then Andris varied from the script.

"He came to see me, you know." There was no need to explain who ëhe' was. They both knew well enough.

"Did he?"

"Yes, as you knew he would. He asked if I knew were you were."

"What did you tell him?"

"What do you think I told him?" Andris barked. "I did as you asked. I lied. I said I hadn't seen you for months."

"Did he believe you?"

"I doubt it. He stayed in Helsinki for days, snooping around, following my men. It made things awfully difficult. Eventually, he gave up."

"Oh." Illya was oddly disappointed. In spite of the fact that this had all been his doing, he still harbored the romantic notion that Napoleon would find him, no matter the barriers, and convince him to return to New York. 

"Don't sound so unhappy. That is what you wanted."

"Yes." Illya didn't even sound convincing to himself.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping at their vodka, and occasionally staring at each other. It was Andris who spoke first.

"You're a fool, Illya Nickovetch."

"You've no right..."

"I've every right. You're throwing away something that most of us would kill for. Someone who loves you, whom you love."

"It's more complicated than that. There are other things to consider."

"There is only what you decide to consider. You think about that, Illya Nickovetch." He pulled an envelope from within his coat and casually threw it on the table. "You also think about this."

"What is it?" Illya stared at the envelope, as fascinated with it as a snake was by a mongoose. 

"A letter. I think you know who it's from."

"You shouldn't have taken it. He'll know you know where I am."

"He didn't give me a choice. Your partner-"

"Ex-partner."

"Ex-partner," Andris continued without skipping a beat, "can be a persuasive man. If you're worried about your location, I didn't confirm anything and there's no way he could have followed me. Your secret is safe." He rose from the table. "I should be going. I need to get back to the road before the light disappears. There's no moon tonight, and it's hard enough to find the trail in the daylight."

He gathered his now empty backpack from where it sat on the counter.

* * *

Illya sat at the table long after Andris had left. The shadows grew longer in the cabin and the light began to fade. Still he didn't move, couldn't move.

The letter sat in front of him, a terrible temptation, and yet one he knew he couldn't deny for long.

When the light had nearly gone he finally moved. First, he lit the lamp on the kitchen table that was his main source of illumination in this place without electricity. Then he sat again. And only after another long period of merely looking at the thing and listening to the flame sputter did he pick up the letter and open it.

June 20, 1972  
Helsinki

Dear Illya,

I'm not sure what to say to you. I've tried to hate you, but somehow I can't quite manage it.

I threatened to quit the Command. Had the letter written out and everything. Gave it to Waverly. He convinced me that it wouldn't change anything. That you wouldn't let yourself be found. That not even he knew where you were. So it seems I'm stuck in the position you left me in.

You were right about one thing. Section One is making noises about promoting me in the next few months. They're all acting very chummy. Waverly is looking as pleased as the father about to give away the bride. 

I hate it all.

I know that in that twisted Slavic brain of yours you think this makes sense, that it's the only way. You're wrong. Dead wrong. You were what made it all worthwhile. With you, everything had fallen into place; my life finally made complete sense. Now, it's all chaos.

I know I'll do a good job. I may even live up to Waverly's legacy. I'll lead the Command and keep the world safe and live an honorable life. And there won't be a single day that I won't wish you were here and that someone else had the damn job.

I love you Illya, and I think that I always will. But I know that you think that this is what has to be. I'll respect your wishes, even if it kills both of us in the end.

I'm going to stop looking for you, but I'd ask this. If you ever begin to doubt what you've done, please come and find me. I'll be waiting, whenever it is.

Always,

Polya

Illya read the words on the page and felt his resolve waver, just for a moment. 

It would be so easy to do as Napoleon asked. To return to him and live, if not happily ever after, then at least content and with love. So easy.

So easy, and yet he couldn't do it.

Illya Kuryakin had spent a lifetime subsuming his own needs, his own desires to those of the greater good. He couldn't break the habit now, no matter how much he wished to. He had known that it wouldn't be easy, but he also knew that it had to be done. For the sake of U.N.C.L.E and all he had worked for.

There was no going back. He had to go forward. 

So, he sat at the table and tried to think about what going forward meant, the new job he would have, the new people he would meet. He tried to convince himself that he would be able to make it work, that it made sense.

And clutched in one hand, crumpled, disregarded and yet not relinquished, was the letter, his last tie to the life he was walking away from.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in Relative Secrecy 3.


End file.
